


ironfrost

by orphan_account



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Deviates From Canon, M/M, Miscarriage, Prison, angsty, hans is an emo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kristoff cannot keep himself from visiting Arendelle's only prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ironfrost

**1**

Kristoff Bjorgman visits Hans of the Southern Isles for the first time on the eve of his wedding. Some of the friends he’s made during his time in Arendelle’s palace tell him that the only proper way to spend this night is in the company of many—presumably them—and several mugs of rich ale. He does not disbelieve them, per se, but he does not want to be there. Here—here, he knows, is a better way to spend his time; he’s simply not yet sure why.

His boots resound on the rocky floor of the prison hallway, a stark change from the icily polished floors that make up the rest of the sprawling palace. It’s cold down here, uncomfortably so, and he’s more than grateful for the fur coat and hat that he thought to put on with the thought of hiding face, so that no servants or orderlies would question his doings at what’s approaching midnight.

Anna, he thinks, is in bed. They don’t share one, not yet, but he doesn’t need to see her to be sure that she’s fast asleep; his fiancée, he reflects with the slightest of smiles as he rounds the corner, is one of those rare people who manages to be accustomed to neither morning nor evening. Instead, her bodily cycle matches that of the sun—she is most energetic, most excitable at high noon, and her energy dwindles as the light turns orange and red. She is beautiful and fiery, and he adores her beyond all else.

“And just what has you in such a good mood?” a cool voice inquires, floating out of the darkness.

Kristoff turns quickly, half-stumbling to a halt. There are no lanterns in this section of the corridor, and he is instead staring into shadows that are initially pitch-black. A laugh stirs the chill air, and only after several seconds of gazing narrowly do his pupils slowly accustom themselves to the faint traces of moonlight leaking in through a barred window.

“Dark, I know,” the voice sighs. Something stirs within the cloaking shades. “One grows used to it, though. And your smile could be called dazzling, even on a new moon.”

Never has he heard a voice so bitter.

“Hans?” he tests, knowing that Arendelle holds no other prisoner, that he’s a fool to voice the name as a question.

The shadow twitches once more. “Who else?”

He is here to ask about Anna. He does not know why, cannot quite justify it to himself—he knows only that she seemed more in love with Hans than she ever did with him, and he wants to know why. He wants to know what Hans did—he wants to know how to make himself better. And perhaps this is the wrong place to come for that, especially considering that he’s sure there’s no soul other than this one that he despises and looks down upon more in the world, yet the months of lingering cold and Anna’s morning sickness have made him a desperate, desperate man, and he wants only one last thing that will make him feel as though he is doing the right thing. He wants to do what is best for her, what will make her happy, and he somehow believes that Hans of the Southern Isles may know what words he should speak to her. He is going to ask. That is what he is here for.

“Do they even give you a lantern?” he demands instead.

Hans rustles. “But of course not. I am the scum of the earth, now, Kristoff.”

A shudder clasps his insides at the time of his own name. Of course, it must be well known by now, but he is still used to hearing it only in the voices of trolls—the way it’s pronounced now is as smooth as the melted chocolate that Anna is so fond of, and it writhes all the way down to his stomach.

“Well… I am here to talk about Anna.”

“Anna.” There’s a faint thud of what might be a head on stone. “Of course you’re here to talk about  _Anna._ Boring little Anna with her braids and her freckles.”

“I love her,” Kristoff says, the words a lifeline.

“I loved her, too.”

“You never loved her.”

“I  _did._ I went through the actions. I flirted and I cajoled and then I proposed, and I almost even  _kissed._ You’ve kissed her, haven’t you? Disappointing, isn’t it? She always looked like she wouldn’t know what she was doing. No, but there’s been more. There’s going to be a brand new little prince or princess soon, isn’t there?”

“That’s none of your business.” There’s something spicy and acidic rising under Kristoff’s tongue, and he wishes quite desperately that he had a lantern. He wonders what Hans is wearing, whether he is able to shave, if the dungeon food has left him skinny. His voice certainly rasps.

“It’s everyone’s business. You’re going to be  _royalty,_ as of tomorrow—I anticipate the wedding. I’ll be able to hear it. The music—I can always hear the music, did you know that? Through your floor. My ceiling.”

“I didn’t come here to—”

“You came to talk about Princess Anna of Arendelle. Let me tell you, then: she’s shallow and trivial and fickle and ditzy. She’s pretty, but she’s a child. The most pain she’s ever felt in her life is her  _sister_ refusing to  _play_ with her.”

“The most pain she’s felt in her life,” Kristoff is shouting, not knowing where the volume to his voice came from, only that his lungs burn, “is when you broke her  _heart!”_

“Oh, you truly don’t know her well enough, yet, do you?”

Hans sighs, and it is a sound so human that Kristoff shivers. He does not speak another word, but instead lets the thud of his boots on the stone serve as his farewell.

* * *

**2**

A week later, he is back.

“Did you hear the music?” he asks, stopping in front of Hans’s cell with his arms folded over his broad chest and his chin high.

The shadow laughs before replying. “Yes, I did. Traditional, of course. You two never would be a couple to break tradition. Anna and I—if we had gone through, we would have had fast music at our wedding. Music to  _dance_ to, not simply strut about.”

Kristoff kicks one of the cell’s front bars, hard enough for his toes to bruise, and turns on his heel.

* * *

  **3**

The third time, Kristoff brings a lantern.

Hans looks up the moment he rounds the corner, and he can see him now, and he  _is_ thin. His epaulette-decked vest and immaculately cut hair from the time of the Winter are gone. He is dressed instead in what must be standard prison garb—loose trousers and a thin corded shirt, so oversized that it dangles from his emaciated shoulders. His eyes are dark, the shadows beneath them hopefully accentuated by the lantern light, and his lips are pressed tight, pale and twitching.

“If you came during the day, you realize, you would face none of these problems. Likewise, if you didn’t come at all.”

“I want to come.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Anna, too, I’m sure. Doesn’t she notice how often you vanish?”

Kristoff shifts uncomfortably, one foot dragging along the floor as his lantern switches hands. “I tell her that I take walks,” he says, “that I need the time to myself.”

“When, truly, you need the time with  _me._ It’s shameful, King of Arendelle.”

“I don’t need the time with you. I don’t even  _want_ the time with you.”

“And yet…”

Kristoff is just beginning to form a sound of anger in the back of his throat when Hans springs to his feet, and he is agile despite his clear frailty; within instants, he is at the front of the cell, fingers curling around the bars, and Kristoff steps back with the lantern swinging from his hand, casting cold and twisted shadows over the prisoner’s face.

“You are  _ruining_ yourself, Kristoff King,” Hans says, and his words are still taunting, but his tone has fallen into desperation, voice narrowing almost until it cracks. “I can’t say what you want with me, but you would do better to leave me  _alone._ I want nothing to do with you.  _Nothing,_ do you understand? I can’t help you with Anna. Talk to her sister, if you care. But she never loved me, and I never cared for her, and I am the  _villain_ now, do you understand? What happened with my mother, and with my brothers—that does not matter, because I am  _evil._ This has made me evil. Elsa and Anna are happy and perfect now, and you, Kristoff. Your job is to be happy  _with_ them. That is all, do you understand?”

Anna called Hans’s eyes  _dreamy,_ but to Kristoff, they are haunted. They are a pale hazel, and yet there is so much darkness within them, lingering in the bloodshot sclera. They are eyes that seem too close to withering away in a brittle skull.

“I’m not happy with them,” Kristoff says.

“Then perhaps you are a traitor as well, King,” Hans says, and turns away, ghastly eyes fading away into a darkness that even Kristoff’s lantern cannot penetrate.

* * *

  **4**

“Who was your mother?”

“A dismal wretch. After thirteen sons, her soul was as worn as her body. I was the most disposable, so I was the one who received the brunt of her displeasure.”

“What do you mean?”

“She hit me. She freely said that she did not love me. She told me that there was nothing in the whole of the world I could do to make my life worthwhile. So I was going to become a king. Then she would see.”

“Prince Hans—”

“Who was your mother, King?”

“…I don’t remember.”

“Oh, how I envy you. You and the weight of your crown.”

* * *

  **5**

“No crown this time, hm?”

“I don’t like it. I know I should—I should love it, but… I can’t. It’s too heavy. I want to be in the mountains again, without… without any of this.”

“Without Anna?”

“She could never live there.”

“I like you, Kristoff. You are a wiser man than I could ever be.”

“You’ve taught me more than the mountains.”

“What pitiable mountains they must be.”

* * *

 

**6**

“My son was born dead,” Kristoff tells Hans eight months after the wedding.

Hans is watching the ceiling. It has been one year now, and he has only grown gaunter.

“She hasn’t stopped crying. She’s with Elsa now.”

“Still births aren’t all that uncommon, especially in the winter.”

Kristoff takes in a breath of the prison air, and it catches in his throat, grating and twisting; he moans, his shoulders shaking, and the tear trails gleam on his cheeks as he lowers the lantern past them, to the ground.

“Have you been crying, as well, King?”

“I couldn’t even  _father_ for her. I can’t even be a father.”

“Try again, then.”

“I can’t. I can’t watch this keep happening to her. I  _love_ her.”

“You claim that you love her,” Hans says, and then he’s on his feet, and he’s up against the bars again, and his eyes are wide, and there are tears within them, as well. “You claim that you love her, King Kristoff, but you do not spend the nights with your wife. Instead, this is the sixth time that you have come down to keep the company of Arendelle’s single prisoner. I tried to murder the Queen. I raised my sword to bring it down upon her. I would have killed Anna as well. I  _tried_ to. Why are you here, Kristoff? Why would you betray yourself and your kingdom?”

He cannot reply. He is paralyzed, inside and out, his heartbeat sluggish. His skull still screams with the weight of his scrawny cold-born child, and he wishes only that he could be in the mountains once more, yet he cannot escape. He can no longer go away and up—only down, down into these awful dark dungeons and their single prisoner. Yes, he has betrayed Anna and Arendelle. Yet he is not for Hans. He is here for the escape.

It has not yet occurred to him that perhaps Hans  _is_ the escape.

“I…”

“Aren’t you wiser? Aren’t you meant to be  _so much wiser_ than this?”

“Stop,” Kristoff whispers, so softly that his breath forms a wavering cloud in the air. “Stop. You have no reason to—”

“To what? To torment you? I have  _every_ reason! You would have killed me—you captured me, cowardly through the hands of your guards, and  _you_ married the woman I courted—”

“The woman you tried to murder—”

“She was mine!”

“And you  _ruined_ that right yourself!”

Kristoff doesn’t realize how loud his voice has grown until his throat is aching. The tears are back, blurring his vision, so that he can no longer make out Hans’s expression, and his lips are twisting into a horrible cringe as he remembers Anna, remembers how she’d stroke her belly and giggle and whisper about how much Olaf would love the baby—how Kristoff would be the best of fathers—

“What if she can’t?” he mumbles, and his voice is raw again. “What if she cannot child-bear?”

“Then it is your own wretched fault, Kristoff King, for marrying off to a woman who cannot reproduce for you. Was that your only goal? To create young? Typical. The mountain man, as ever.”

“No— _no,”_ Kristoff hisses, because he won’t allow himself to be beaten down by these words—they’re not true; they  _cannot_ be true. He knows that he loves Anna. He is determined that he loves Anna. “That is not—it was never…”

Hans’s skin is waxy against the bars of his prison, his eyes hollow and dark, his lips twisted into a sneer. “Oh, you  _fool._ You do not belong here. You should not be wedded to royalty… you should not be royalty  _yourself…_ ”

“But I am. But I  _am,_ Prince Hans, so what can you do?”

“Exactly what I have been doing.”

“Nothing.”

“If that’s what you choose to believe.”

Hissing under his breath, Kristoff reaches up, gripping onto one of the cold bars. His fingers are mere millimeters away from Hans’s, yet he can feel no heat emanating from the other, ashen-faced man.

“You haven’t changed me. You’re—you’re nothing… you’re only…”

“What  _am_ I, then, Kristoff? Why don’t you decide that yourself? What am I to you? I’m hardly a source of wisdom or comfort, yet you come down here time and time again. I thought, when you paused for those few months, that you’d finally found your place alongside Anna. But you’re here instead. Why?  _Why?”_

“I…”

_“Why are you here, Kristoff?”_

And, staring at the bright eyes and pale skin and shaggy hair and sharp teeth, it comes to him.

“I’m here because you’re the one thing in this whole magical kingdom that I don’t understand,” he says. His voice catches on the scars of sobs. “Queen Elsa turned it all to ice at one point, and that’s simple enough. I was raised by trolls. By now, I can even understand why Anna… well… everyone’s so… natural. Except for you. I don’t… I want to understand you.”

“I’m not worth your time, King. You’ll be disappointed.” Hans sags against the bars, head falling before hunched shoulders, and he exhales lowly, Something drips steadily near the back of the cell. “I’m the most human of any of your perfect souls.”

“You were a prince and a hero. You were perfect—you weren’t human then, and you aren’t now—”

“I’m  _less_ than human, to you.”

“When she described you, I thought you would be beautiful.”

“Did she talk about me? Funny. She barely crossed my mind once in her absence.”

He doesn’t think before he’s reaching through the bars, and then the front of Hans’s ragged shirt is caught between his fingers, knuckles pressing against the sharp ribs beneath. He can feel the birdlike beat of a fragile heart, though the lungs are tensed.

“She said it best,” he spits, pulling them together until he can taste Hans’s breath, bleak from the days of isolation. His elbow is braced against the thinner man’s stomach, and he’s nearly lifting him into the air. “Your heart is  _frozen.”_

“You like to believe that, don’t you, King?”

“I do believe it. There is nothing you could do to convince me otherwise.”

He’s still staring at the eyes, still thinking  _haunted,_ when a hand darts out between the bars and grips him by the collar of his own coat, pulling him down just enough that the eyes are all he can see, and he’s drowning in them—he forces his own closed, blocking away the hollow agony that pulses through the other man, but he cannot stop the weight of the kiss when it comes, nor the heat that swoops through his whole being, shivering in his stomach, filling his lungs with a fire that the sweet exchanges with Anna never came close to. He feels a whining moan build in the back of his chest as teeth come down against his lower lip, biting sharply and furiously, and he wants to break away, but he knows now why Hans of the Southern Isles is imprisoned far beneath the palace of Arendelle—it is, too clearly, because he is the fire against the Queen’s ice, and if he were to be released, he would burn away the whole kingdom, as he is burning Kristoff now.

He pulls away from the chill lattice of the metal bars after seconds, fire in his throat and chest, and he stares—Hans’s eyes are as dark— _as haunted—_ as ever, yet the faintest of flushes tinges his gaunt cheeks, and the overpowering sensation that surrounds him is no longer coldness—instead, he seems sad. Pathetically, quietly sad.

“Human,” Hans says, stepping back.

Kristoff leaves, boots heavy as always against the uneven ground, and speaks to the sole guard on the way out.

“From now on, make sure he has a lantern.”

“Yes, your majesty.”


End file.
